Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

He approached the main building with gun drawn, the night vision scope showing the way. The door was open, and he went in. From room to room he searched, but found no one else. What happened here? He pondered the question on his way back to the dock, but couldn’t come up with an answer that seemed to fill all the empty spots in the puzzle. Pirates, loot, greed. Grabbing for guns. All that I can understand, but that only accounts for four dead. What about the others? And where is Husam al Din?

Twenty minutes after his arrival, Josh was finished. He untied the Zodiac, pushed away from the dock and motored out of the river. He pressed the handheld VHF radio to his mouth and contacted the ship.

“I’m coming in. Have the decontamination team ready to hose me and the boat while I stand off from the ship. Then I’ll strip down, leave everything in the Zodiac and swim to the ship. I’ll need to be decontaminated again before I board, just in case I touch anything while trying to get out of the boat. Have a crewman ready to burn the Zodiac and everything in it.”

“Aye, sir. We’re ready for you,” came the reply.

Forty minutes later, light was just beginning to show over the horizon when Josh stepped out of the hazmat suit and jumped overboard. A team in a second Zodiac stood by with a can of gasoline that they threw into the boat Josh used, then set it ablaze. As Josh trod water below the boarding ladder, the decontamination team hosed him with antibiotic solution; then he climbed aboard and took a shower.

The skipper met Josh as he stepped out of the shower. “Damn lot of precautions you’re taking, mister.”

As he toweled dry, Josh cut to the chase. “We need to secure this area. Until the hazmat team arrives, nobody goes to that island, I don’t care who they are or what country they’re from. And I suggest we back off a few miles and stay upwind.”

“The old man was right about you,” the skipper said. “You act like you run this show.”

“As a matter of fact, right now, I’ve got to place a satellite call to Captain Pfister, the old man, as you call him.”

“He isn’t going to like hearing a phone ring this early,” the skipper warned.

Josh smiled. “It’s okay, I’m already on his crap list.”

From the foredeck, Josh placed the call. When he heard Pfister’s voice, he said as cheerfully as he could, “Good afternoon, captain. How has your day been going so far?”

“Afternoon? It’s zero five thirty. Is that you Adams?” Pfister’s voice was rough and carried no hint of humor.

“Indeed it is, sir. I need a favor.”

“You need a court martial.”

“I’m a civilian, remember?”

“Then you need to be keel-hauled.”

“You sound in fine spirits, sir. But what I really need is to make contact with the owner of Borboleta.”

“Why?”

“Just covering all the leads. He took the call from the family that was held by the pirates on San Luis Miguel. Then he relayed the information to the Coast Guard. I’m betting he knows more than he reported, and I need to know everything he can tell me.”

“Your target went missing?”

“Yes, sir. The situation here is ugly with a capital U, and my man is nowhere to be found. That means he’s still out there, and I want to talk with the man whose family was being held on the island. The owner of Borboleta is my first step to finding them.”

“All right, let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back when I have something.”

“Thank you, sir.” Josh ended the call and dialed again.

“This is Curt.” The voice sounded more awake than Pfister had, but not by much.

“Curt. Josh here.”

“What have you found?”

“Found the container on the island of San Luis Miguel, about 370 miles north of Panama. The box had been salvaged, hauled ashore on a barge, and opened.”

“Was Husam al Din there?”

“No. But I found nine dead. Four shot to death, and the rest died of something bad that had nothing to do with bullets. We need a forensic hazmat team on the ground right away, and a bio weapons tech to try to figure this thing out.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, I need an official thank-you card sent to Captain Pfister at Station Panama. He’s been a huge help, but he’s feeling a little pinch in the ego department right now. He’s not used to non-brass button types taking charge of anything. Maybe you could have the president sign the card.”

“Is that all?”

“How’s Susan?”

“She’s out of the woods. In fact, she’ll be on a flight home this afternoon.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Hi? That’s all?”

“That’ll do for now. I’ll tell her the rest myself later.”

Thirty minutes later, the satellite phone rang and Josh set his cup of tea aside and answered. “Mr Adams,” – the voice sounded businesslike – “I have the information you requested.”

“Ah, Captain Pfister. I’ve been thinking of you.”

“No wonder my bowels have been running.”

“Great sense of humor, sir.”

“You can reach the owner of Borboleta , a fellow named Nigel Marsh, at the number I’m about to give you. It’s a hotel in Colon, where he’s staying while having some bottom work done.”

Josh copied the number on a slip of paper, thanked the captain and disconnected the call. Immediately, he dialed the hotel and connected to the room of Nigel Marsh, forgetting the early hour. A sleepy voice answered, “Alo?”

“Mr Marsh?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Josh Adams. I work with the American government, and I’m trying to follow up on an incident involving a sailboat that was taken by pirates on the island of San Luis Miguel.”

“Ah, yes,” – the voice sounded more awake – “Pity the filthy dishwater those folks got themselves into. How are they doing?”

“Actually, I’m hoping you can tell me a bit more about them. We’re trying to track them down so we can find out how they’re doing.”

“Mighty nice of you, if I do say so. You Yanks are good to your own. So, how can I help you?”

“Start at the very beginning. Tell me every word that was said.”

“Okay, well, let me see. It’s early, you know, and my brain isn’t fully engaged quite yet, but I’ll give it my best. Okay, let me see, I got the call on the VHF, channel sixteen it was, and this chap named Dan Plover wanted to know if I had a single sideband and could contact the Coast Guard in Panama. I told him I did and I could and I would.”

“Dan Plover? Did he mention the names of anybody else on board?”

“Said his wife was Nicole and they had two kids, Jacob and Cadee, ages 17 and 11 respectively.”

“Did he say where they were from? Their home port?”

“Yes, he did. Said they were from Seattle. Boat name is Whisper , and it’s a 34-foot cruising catamaran, a Gemini 105Mc, if I remember right.”

“Where were they heading?’

“Said they wanted to go to the Rio Dulce. Well, I said, that’s a nice area. I had just come from there myself, and I told them all about it. But they were anxious that I report the piracy incident to the Coast Guard.”

“Did they tell you any details about the island?”

“Actually, yes, they did.” And he related the story to Josh. Besides the barge, he added, there was a very fast looking red and black boat with a pair of big outboard motors at the dock.

Red and black boat? It wasn’t there this morning.

“Did Mr Plover tell you how many men were on the island?”

“He did indeed. Said there were ten, including de la Vega himself.”

“Ten,” Josh repeated.

“Yeah, that’s what he told me. Ten.”